When Paths Cross
by MurdocsAngel
Summary: (SGASH22 xover)Two visitors wind up in New London; what will our favorite heroes make of them?
1. 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own SH22 or SGA **

**Summary: Dr. Weir and Dr. McKay find themselves on a planet that is strangely familiar..and yet completely different. (Crossover with Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century) **

Archive: McWeir, Maureen O'Brien's SH22 fansite (all others please ask)   
Rating: PG-13   
Pairings: McWeir, H/L

A/N: Mary Christmas challenged me to write a McWeir H/L crossover story...so here's the first chapter. Hope you like it!

When Paths Cross

A strong aroma of decay and something else that she could identify filled Dr. Elizabeth Weir's nostrels. She wrinkled her nose and opened her eyes to find herself laying on a muddy river bank, inches away from the polluted water. Disgusted, she pushed herself to her knees and then fell backwards in her haste to get away.

She shook her head slightly, her brain functioning in a somewhat normal manner now that she wasn't in danger of being dipped headfirst into...that...and looked around. While the small patch of land she was sitting on was clear of any dwellings or signs of life--not even grass--the rest of her vision was filled with tall buildings and flying vehicles of some sort. So, she was on a planet with a technologically advanced society. As an optimist, she decided to take that as a good sign.

Now all she had to do was figure out where she was, and how she got there. No easy task considering the last thing she remembered was breaking up an impending argument between Kavanaugh and Sergeant Bates.

A frown creased her brow as she debated over what she should do next. She could stay where she was at and hope Major Sheppard or someone would eventually find her or she could wander around until she found the planet's stargate. Neither option appealed very much to her, so she decided to see if she could contact an inhabitant and ask for some information. It might jog her memory.

Her decision made, she rose to her feet, brushed the mud and dirt off her clothes as best she could, and set off in a general direction.

As she walked, pedestrians passed her, but gave her a wide berth or ignored her altogether. She frowned. She wasn't that dirty, only a stain or two. And some of them looked ten times worse, with food stains and God only knew what else.

Feeling a little frustrated, she stopped and happened to look up at a conveniently placed street sign. What she read there had to be a coincidence. But what were the chances of there being a Picadilly Circus in the Pegasus Galaxy? And what were the chances of there being a statue of a man, identical to one she'd passed in London during one of her trips?

"...yeah and New Scotland Yard officials 'ave no comment' on the Baker St affair," a voice from somewhere to her right said, breaking into her reverie, "but we know the real truth, don't we, Tennyson?"

Elizabeth had to clear her ears out, and then turned to see who was speaking when the response sounded like a series of beeps and whistles. A young girl, who looked no more than twelve and a boy in some kind of hovering chair with earphones and a bandanna covering his mouth, were standing not too far away chatting. Only the boy was using the keyboard on the chair to speak.

"Yeah yeah, I know," the girl said, "Mister 'olmes said not to say anything 'cause of National Security and all that...but..."

Elizabeth covered her ears with her hands and shook her head. This could not be happening. That girl had not just said Mister Holmes. _That_ was way too much for her to handle. She took a deep breath and looked up to find the two of them giving her concerned looks.

"I asked if you was all right, Miss," the girl said softly, "Are you? Need any 'elp?"

The boy beeped something. "Right, and Tennyson says 'e can contact a doctor if you want. Got a direct net connection 'e does."

"Um..no...I don't need a doctor," Elizabeth quickly said. Then she eyed them. They were at least speaking with her, even if they were children. Maybe she could get some information out of them. "Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me what this place is."

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Or the right, depending on how you took their reactions. Both of them stared at her in dismay, then looked at each other and nodded.

"C'mon," the girl said decisively, taking Elizabeth's arm, "We can take you to someone 'oo can 'elp."

Elizabeth started to protest, especially when she was led to a large, cavernous opening. _This can't be the Underground...I must be hallucinating..._ but decided against it. She needed more information, and it seemed that in order to get that, she'd have to trust these two.

------------------------

The brush of a feather against his cheek brought Rodney awake. He blinked and looked around, confused as to why he was currently laying in a chicken coop. Then he became more confused when he remembered that there weren't any chickens in the Pegasus galaxy. He sat up quickly, making the birds that had decided to use him as a roost squawk in displeasure and flap about, feathers flying everywhere.

He stood up and brushed his clothes off, wincing when his hand came into contact with chicken poo. Disgusting animals, chickens.

A better look at his surroundings showed that he was in a small farmyard in the middle of a big city. Excitment coursed through him at the realization. Maybe these people had a zed-pm! Or even if they didn't, they'd be great to trade with. They were obviously quite technologically advanced, judging by the vehicles zooming around through the air with the ease of a Puddle Jumper.

"Well, it's a good thing you woke up before we had to drag you off," a woman's voice drawled.

Rodney jerked his head in her direction and stared. She wore an all white uniform and a necklace that held a triangular shaped object. A badge of some sort? Well, that was a stupid way to wear it. A wily criminal could easily use it to strangle her. He opened his mouth to say just that, when she pulled a weapon out and shot him with it.

A golden energy 'rope' formed around him, binding his arms to his sides, and nearly making him fall over.

"Don't cause any more trouble than you already have, Mister," the woman growled.

This offended Rodney's sensebilities. "Me cause trouble? I wake up with chicken shit all over me, and you tell me not to cause trouble? What kind of planet is this?"

"A wise guy eh? Well we've got just the place for you. C'mon." She walked over to him, allowing him to see that it was indeed a badge, and that it said 'Inspector B. Lestrade', and then pushed him in front of her.

"I've got rights, y'know, and I don't think you should be pushing me. I have a delicate constitution a...euff!" He turned his head and shot the woman a glare as she pushed him square in the back, making him stumble. "I'll sue," he muttered, though he doubted very much this planet had any such legal system.

In fact, he didn't even know what planet he was on. He frowned and racked his brain. Nope, the last thing he remembered was Sheppard and Ford pushing him into the lovely lagoon on the Mainland. And he had only been dressed in his boxers. Now, he had on the requisitional grey trousers, blue turtle-neck sweater and boots.

"Excuse me, but...hey!" He shot 'Inspector B. Lestrade' another glare, "I'm trying to ask a question here! You aren't very nice, you know?"

"I've never been accused of that, no," she shot back, grinning, "Now be quiet. You can talk all you want once we get back to the yard."

"We just left the yard," Rodney replied scathingly, "What, do you people like to do business outside or something?"

"I'm really not in the mood for jokes, friend," Lestrade replied, her voice dangerously low, "It's New Scotland Yard and you know it. Now get moving. I don't have all day."

"New Scot...but that's impossible! I can't go to New Scotland Yard!" Rodney's mind raced. Was this some kind of sick joke, like when they had 'gated to the planet of the mist?

"Oh, well, too bad for you," Lestrade replied, not sounding at all sorry. In fact, she sounded downright gleeful. "Should have thought about that before taking a nap in a chicken coop belonging to the Prime Minister."

tbc


	2. 2

Beth Lestrade was not in a cheerful mood. The day had been on series of disasters after another, starting with the automatic toothpaste dispenser deciding it wanted to automatically dispense toothpaste whether or not the button that controlled it was pushed. At least she hadn't been dressed, as she usually was when she brushed her teeth, otherwise that would have been yet another uniform in need of cleaning, and she only had the one left.

She had rushed to get dressed before realizing that she had a whole extra hour because the clock had also gone on the fritz, and wound up ruining her one good uniform anyway, by ripping the sleeves of the black undershirt in her haste to get it on. Plain clothes were acceptable since she was an inspector, but the special shielded vest that was lightweight and comfortable wouldn't fit over anything save the specially made undershirts.

She wouldn't be allowed to handle any cases that might involve her falling, getting into fist fights, any of the stuff that normally happened to Inspector B. Lestrade, because she wouldn't be properly protected. It didn't matter that she could handle herself better than any other officer in the country, or that the vest sometimes _inhibited_ her movements; it was against the rules, therefore she would have to either remain behind her desk all day, or go on routine traffic patrols.

Breakfast had consisted of a nutrition bar, rather than her preferred brand of cereal because she hadn't had time to go for groceries this week. It wasn't one of the good kinds either, but a rather disgusting mixture that tasted like sawdust and urine (not that she'd ever tasted urine or sawdust, but she imagined that they tasted bad enough). Finishing it off was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do in her life, and it nearly broke her when she realized she had no water to cleanse away the foul substance.

After breakfast, she had climbed into her cruiser, her mood slightly improved with being behind the controls of the vehicle, only to discover that some punks had thought it the height of good humor to break in to a _cop's _car, leaving their message in specially designed paint that could only be seen from the inside once all the doors closed, in shining letters across the view port.

Growling, she had swiftly and efficiently cleaned the stuff up, and in a rage that made her flying surprisingly controlled, she had made her way to the Yard.

Greyson had issued her another uniform, even though he had stated unequivocally the last time that she'd be getting no more until she learned how to take care of her stuff, because the Prime Minister himself had called and needed an officer to come and take away some idiot who had fallen asleep in his chicken coop.

Beth hadn't even known the man had a chicken coop.

Now, dressed in Yard white, she was sitting beside a man who smelled like bird poop and who was either the dumbest person in the world, or just a smart ass.

He was tall, probably an inch or so taller than she was, with receding brown hair and blue eyes. His mouth was lopsided, giving him an almost adorable quality; almost because he was a criminal, and because he wouldn't shut up.

"Look," he said, still trying to get her goat, "I haven't done anything wrong, well at least nothing that I see as wrong, I mean surely it isn't illegal to find yourself someplace you're not supposed to be." He paused, and, seeming to realize that he had said something wrong, tried to fix it. "I mean, yes being some place you're not supposed to be is illegal, but I meant some place that you didn't know you'd be at because you weren't there before…watch out! What are you trying to do, kill me?"

Lestrade smirked as she glanced at the man out of the corner of her eye. His eyes were wide with fright and he was clutching the panel in front of him as if it would save him from any more little maneuvers she might think up. Well, if she overcompensated or tried to override the safety features that the automatic pilot put in place, hanging on for dear life wasn't going to stop him from being as crushed as she was in the crash.

"Look, you can say whatever it is you want to say once we get to the Yard," she told him succinctly, "for now, just enjoy the ride."

She felt, rather than saw the scathing glance sent her way, and her smirk grew.

"Oh, I'm so glad you find my imminent death amusing," he snarled, then his voice took on a pained quality, "I will never complain about anything Sheppard or Zelenka or even Kavanaugh do again, if you'll just let me wake up from this nightmare."

Beth glanced at him again, making a mental note to check out those names, one of which she was certain was Czech. His eyes were closed and his face held an earnest expression, giving more credence to the 'adorable' theory. Something wasn't quite right here, and, making a quick decision, turned the cruiser in a 180 degree turn.

"Oh god…" the man whimpered, "you really are trying to kill me."

-------

Sherlock Holmes could be the most patient of men, a cat lying in wait of its prey, entire body attuned to the sounds and feel of the environment around it. However, that was usually only when a case presented itself, a case of _interest_. Other times, he was obnoxious, impatient, and sometimes downright rude. Which was why Watson, level 7 law enforcement compudroid welcomed the knock at the door with much enthusiasm.

Not that he didn't enjoy the Irregulars company regardless of Holmes' behavior, but the fact that they brought along a guest who promised something to take the detective's mind off his boredom had him going to the kitchen and mixing up a batch of biscuits that he knew Deidre and Tennyson preferred above all the others. The woman was a tiny brunette, her hair short and slightly wavy, with large green eyes and expressive features. Her clothes, consisting of a red shirt and black trousers of a style Watson wasn't familiar with, and which he couldn't find on any of the net circuits he tried, were muddy and torn.

Keeping his audio sensors attuned to the conversation in the sitting room, he carefully placed the mixture on a pan before transferring it into the oven. They tasted much better than the synthesized sort to be found in modern grocery stores.

"So tell me, madam," Holmes said in way of greeting, "how did you happen to get to the future?"

Watson nearly dropped the mixing bowl that he was in the process of cleaning, and he could hear the stunned silence in the other room.

"The…no no, this can't be right," the woman said, her voice strong, yet the undertones of weariness, "I must be dreaming…"

"All theories of mass hallucination aside, madam," Holmes responded, sardonic amusement lacing his tone, "I do believe what you are experiencing is quite real."

"I see," her voice held weary resignation, acceptance.

"'ow do you know she's from the past, Mr. 'olmes?" Deidre asked, and Watson wondered why the woman hadn't asked the same thing.

"One, her clothing is obviously early twentieth century material, using a cotton blend rather than the synthesized material that we use today. You can tell by the loose weave. Two, from what you told me about how she was found, she had no idea that she was in New London, but still knew things that a person from Earth would know. Knowing my name, for example, and what services I provide."

Watson stood in the doorway of the kitchen. The woman was looking at Holmes, not in surprise, but in speculation, her eyes troubled.

"My name is Elizabeth Weir," she said after a minute, "I really don't know how I got here."

"And yet you do not seem surprised that it could happen, Ms. Weir." Watson could see the wheels turning in the detective's brain, as surely as a well-oiled machine.

Something in the woman's eyes flickered, and then she smiled. "My boyfriend is an astrophysicist," she explained, "I'm not surprised by anything these days."

"Please get the door Watson, I really don't want Lestrade to break down the door in her obvious foul mood."

Watson blinked uncomprehendingly at Holmes, his circuits struggling to keep up with the abrupt turn in the conversation, before the sound of pounding feet on the stairs outside caught his audio sensors, and he quickly opened to door. Another voice filtered in from the stair well, masculine and whiny, but with an undertone of awe.

"This, it's an incredible replica of the original. Not that I've ever seen the original, or even believed that it was real, but from Doyle's descriptions, I imagine that this is an incredible replica. What did you say this guy's name was? Holmes? Funny don't you think? Taking the name of a detective? At least now I know I'm dreaming, probably drowning on the bottom of that lagoon…"

"Rodney?" Elizabeth Weir whispered in astonishment.

"Your boyfriend?" Deidre asked excitedly.

Everyone turned to the woman expectantly, and she stared at each of them in turn before nodding. "Yes. He's my boyfriend."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "We shall see," he murmured as Lestrade burst into the room with the man following her.

(tbc…)


	3. 3

Deidre had long been a romantic, not just in the sense that she enjoyed watching two people come together and live happily ever after, which was only a part of what the word meant, but in that her imagination and creativity often took off on fanciful flights, leaving her with the need to gain more material with which to weave these sprawling, grand tapestries of the mind.

Though her slight cockney accent caused people to overlook her intelligence, or if they noticed it to be suspicious of its workings, she was quite well read. From Shakespeare to Joan Ashenworth (one of the few 22nd century novelists who actually printed her work in _paper_ copy rather than the various electronic sources), the twelve year old had sucked up as much as she could. She wasn't quite as intelligent as Tennyson, her little hoverchair-bound friend, in that she was no mathematician and, while it caused her no difficulties, she didn't understand fully all the intricacies of programming; however, she did know literature, preferring fiction to non.

From each of these works, her imagination had fed and grown, taking off in leaps and bounds as new ideas and plots had whirled through her mind. They hadn't been enough though, and often she had found herself supplementing old television shows to take up the slack.

Never any of the modern stuff, because it was all pale and two dimensional, even if the visual effects were startlingly 3D, and the color was phenomenally brilliant. The stories and characters were what had interested Deidre.

She had never taken anything from real life either, because one, her own life was boring, dull, drab, not worth mentioning, and two because she didn't want to relive real life, it was hard enough living it the first time around.

Until the day she'd met Sherlock Holmes, Watson and Inspector Beth Lestrade (whom she pretended to dislike, but had a private admiration for), when her life had taken an unexpected turn. She often had fun swindling people with Wiggins and Tennyson, but at that moment she had realized her life had a purpose. She still hadn't figured out what it was, but it was there all the same.

In the two years she had known them, she'd been privately writing in her online journal (private only, not even friends could see) stories and events that hadn't actually happened, using those three colorful personages (as well as herself and her two friends, couldn't forget them because they _were_ a part of the team, even if the Yardie didn't want to admit it) as a basis for her characters.

Sometimes, a slight romance would blossom between Holmes and Lestrade, because in Deidre's mind, the two definitely belonged together. There were so many little hints that if you were the right sort of person, and were looking for them, you could see.

Those were her private thoughts however. In discovering twentieth and twenty-first century television, Deidre had also found a thirst for more knowledge, trawling the limitless expanse of the internet to find what she was looking for. To her surprised delight, she had found communities dedicated to each of these shows, some larger than others, some surviving from the time the shows had been new.

She had, with a dedication that should have been shown towards schoolwork, plunged into these communities, participating when she could, presenting her own opinions on the subjects. She had also written her fair share of fan fiction, adding to the already mountainous amount that existed.

Her favorite of these old television programs had been Stargate: Atlantis, and while she had liked the original, even been inspired to write a couple of character analyses, SG-1 just hadn't captured her imagination as the spin-off had. She had often wondered how she would have felt if she had actually lived during the time these shows had made their debut, if she would have done something differently, but those introspections wouldn't last long as she delved into her writing with fervor.

She had been a ship writer, writing for any pairing that came her way, but her favorite by far was McWeir (a shortening of McKay/Weir), and even though only two seasons of the show had survived time, she was still an adamant fan.

Then Sherlock Holmes had come along, and she hadn't been so diligent in her fandoms as she had in the past.

Now her interest was once again piqued, and not just because of the woman standing in Holmes' sitting room.

She had instantly recognized the woman in the street as Dr. Elizabeth Weir, though she really looked nothing like Torri Higginson, the actress who had portrayed her. That was the reason she had brought her to Holmes' place, not because she'd seemed dazed and out of sorts. Coming of the crypnotizer could do that to a person, as well as some of the more inventive drugs out there.

That wasn't what had her heart pounding, and her senses reeling. Oh no. Dr. Weir had said her boyfriend was an astrophysicist, and then, after recognizing Dr. Rodney McKay's voice had said that he was indeed the one she had mentioned. Stellar!

And then Mister Holmes went and ruined it all by saying, "We shall see."

Mister Holmes was usually never wrong, and that 'We shall see' was his way of saying he thought Weir was lying. Deidre sighed in slight disappointment as Inspector Lestrade burst through the open doorway with McKay right on her heels.

-----

Rodney blinked rapidly as he gazed around the room. It no longer looked like what he had imagined after reading _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_, and it gave him the vaguely unsettling feeling that he wasn't dreaming.

Except that that couldn't be right.

Sure, he could have been taken from way back in the past and brought to the future; it happened all the time when you worked with alien technology that was light years ahead of anything you've ever encountered before.

Two things wrong with that though.

One, he was on Earth and he had been in another galaxy on a planet awaiting the moment when life-sucking aliens would swoop down and destroy the greatest city ever built—or use it to get to Earth.

Two, he hadn't been wearing what he was wearing now. What kind of alien, or person for that matter, would go to the trouble of changing his clothes just to make him travel in time?

Three, Sherlock Holmes did not exist. He was a fictional character, and even if some man alive in the future decided to be like him, it was rather doubtful he'd take on the name.

Four, and probably the most important point, Elizabeth Weir had just walked over to him, placed her hand in his, laid her head down on his shoulder and murmured, "I missed you darling, and I'm so glad you're here with me."

Although he had never actually had a dream featuring the leader of the Atlantis expedition, he was slightly enamored of her. Only slightly though, and that was just because she was the first friend he'd ever really made, the first person not to take him at face value. She was his friend first, boss second, lover, never. As in never ever in a million years.

Which was why he was finding it so difficult to accept this as real. He smiled at the two children, one in a strange contraption that hovered above the ground, the other a girl who was staring at them with a slightly disappointed expression. Then he smiled at the man with the sardonic grin seated in an armchair by a fireplace, with a real fire going. See, if this was the future, surely they wouldn't need _fire_ for heating needs.

Fire polluted.

"Rodney," dream Elizabeth murmured, her breath fanning his ear, "just play along, okay?"

He nodded, perfectly happy to see where this dream led. It was better than the nightmares, where he saw dead people. People who he should have taken care of, that he had been responsible. People also that weren't dead yet, but who he saw dying in those hours of the night when he actually allowed his eyes to close.

Much better than the nightmares, he reaffirmed as Elizabeth's hand squeezed his and as the robot with the incredibly real looking face standing in the doorway of what he assumed was the kitchen gave them both warm smiles.

"Sure, 'lisbeth," he murmured back, "You are the boss after all."

"Yeah, as sweet and touching as this reunion is," B. Lestrade growled, interrupting his self-induced fuzzyness, "I'd like to know what's going on here, _now_."

(tbc…)


End file.
